‘I have no plans made. I have not thought of anything. I supposed--that was how it could be.’ He looked at her for the first time with a bewildered appeal in his eyes. ‘If you knew what it was--to change all at once from being so--spoilt, perhaps, as you say, always understood, never found any fault with----’ in spite of himself his voice faltered, ‘to change from that to--to---- and being not very old, nor knowing very well: it makes a great difference,’ John said, feeling a sob swell upwards in his boyish throat, and breaking off that he might not betray himself. And he did not look at her again to see if there was in her any responsive feeling, but leaned his head upon his hands, shading his countenance from the light. And then there followed a moment of silence,--so silent, so long--with the clock ticking loudly through it with a sort of triumphant click-clack, as if that ceaseless measure were the master of all. After a while she spoke again, with a softened voice. ‘I recognise,’ she said, ‘all the difference: poor boy!--it is natural you should feel it. I am a stranger--so to speak--though I--gave you birth, which is something, perhaps. But it is not your fault. Tell me--you think that all my father had to leave is yours, and that you might continue to live here, just as before--is that what you expect?’ He made a little movement with one hand, still leaning his head on the other. It was a movement that looked like assent. And yet this was not what he had expected; for he had expected nothing, nor had he any thought what he was to do. ‘To do nothing?’ she continued, ‘or to do--what? To live all alone at your age--to carry on the sort of life my father led? That was suitable enough at his time of life, but not at all for you. To keep the maid Sarah and the gardener, and doze in your chair of an afternoon? This could not be seriously what you thought.’ He started a little and cast a look at her, half indignant, half piteous, but did not reply. ‘I am not laughing at you,’ she said, quite gently; ‘you will yourself see when I put it to you that this would be quite impossible. Now I must tell you how things really are. All that my father had is divided between you and me: but you are too young to enter into possession of your share. It will accumulate for you till you are twenty-one, and in the meantime the charge of you naturally lies with me. Whatever has to be determined is between us two. This is what I told you when we came in; you have nobody but me.’